


Hands and Hearts

by Tierfal



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mornings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things can't be fixed; some things get broken… and some things are sleepy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands and Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Once I realized that the "expression" prompt at [Roy/Ed Week](http://royedweek.tumblr.com) _could_ be interpreted as an idiomatic expression, I was DOOMED. :'D
> 
> Warnings: ÜBER-FLUFF, a bit of PG-13 language, post-BH AU

The incidents that end with the shreds of Ed’s automail being shipped to Rush Valley on the military budget (accompanied by numerous conciliatory gifts, paid out of his own pocket) have become just frequent enough that Roy is tempted to relegate him to the library on a semi-permanent basis.  Then again, Ed would probably find a way to blow up the library, at which point they’d be collecting a cardboard box of shards of steel and sheared-off bolts regardless, _and_ Ed would be distraught about the state of the book palace.

When Roy comes down the stairs—trying to towel some of the shower water out of his hair while teetering on the critical threshold between _ability to function_ and _insufficient caffeine reserves_ —Ed is sitting at the kitchen table.  The coffee’s already on, and Ed’s already well into the newspaper—and into a bowl of cereal, which is something of a feat.  Ed has a tendency to hold any given dish up near his mouth with one hand to increase the efficiency of his utensil use and minimize the chances of lost food.

The method is reasonably practical—if slightly uncivilized—when Ed has one hand to hold the bowl two inches from his chin and another to shovel cereal with, but given his current state of disarmament, he’s had to improvise.  Currently his solution appears to be sitting with both heels planted on the edge of the chair, the better to balance the bowl between his knees; he’s spooning fervently with his left hand.  Occasionally he stows the spoon in his mouth to free his fingers up for turning the page.

It is positively _darling_.

But—should it be?  Should it be charming, for some reason, to see Ed profoundly vulnerable like this?  To be privy to the sordid truth of what he’s really lost, without the reassurance that he’s replaced it—that he’s rebuilt himself in more ways than one?  Is it sick to find it _cute_ when he’s at his most assailable?

Perhaps that’s at the heart of it, though.  Perhaps what makes it so damn touching is that Ed feels safe enough to let his guard down in the middle of Roy’s kitchen—in the middle of Roy’s _life_.  It’s not just the missing arm, either; Roy’s seen Ed reading in a half a thousand different places, with dozens of demeanors, and he only gets _engrossed_ when there’s no danger.

Ed lets himself relax here, as much as he ever relaxes at all.  He doesn’t read with one ear pricked in this house; he doesn’t sleep with one eye open when he’s in Roy’s bed.  He’s calm.  Settled.  Is it too much altogether to think—happy, perhaps?

Surely the imagination can’t be stretched so far—surely the mere abstraction would snap back with a vengeance.

Surely—

This is a road Roy knows too well—one he shouldn’t dignify with another step; one that leads to nothing but threading fuses of despair that ignite into arguments and leave both of them choking on the smoke.

Better to strike off into the wilderness well off the beaten path.

He drapes the towel over his shoulders, leans against the doorway, and folds his arms across his chest.

“It’s funny,” he says.  Ed’s gaze lifts from the newsprint, flicks to him, starts to flick back, and then—pauses.  Drags down.  Drags back up.  It’s hard to tell from this distance, but his pupils might dilate just a bit.

Thank goodness: Roy’s still got it.

Charitably, Ed swallows his mouthful of cereal before he says: “What is?”

Roy shrugs and starts to saunter over to the coffee pot.  “‘Take on the world single-handed’ is supposed to be a figure of speech—but that’s pretty literally what you do, isn’t it?”

He can almost hear Ed blinking.  “…guess so.”  He actually _can_ hear the rueful smile, and he glances back—that wasn’t really the reaction he was… “Think the world won this round,” Ed says, circling the empty shoulder port for emphasis.  “It’s won a bunch of ’em, hasn’t it?”

“As an acclaimed military strategist,” Roy says, “I can say with enormous confidence that you’re winning the war.”

Ed cracks a grin and cracks Roy’s heart all over again.  One day the uncounted little fissures will merge into a chasm that will split him right in two, and then—

Here he is again, and the pathway dwindles in the distance, and his feet already know the way.

He wants to say “Which begs the question of what you’re doing with a sad sack like me,” but that sounds a bit too pathetic even by his rather rigorous standards.

Ed’s blinking takes on a dimension of startlement, however, so he has to wonder—

He said it out loud, didn’t he?

Damn it.

When he’s Führer, he is _absolutely_ going to outlaw mornings.

“Well,” Ed says slowly, “I mean, we’re all kinda sacks, aren’t we?  Like—meatbags.  Y’know.  Meatbags full of all the shit that’s happened and all the shit we’ve done and all the people who left impressions.  Big old fuckin’ bags of things.  That’s all it is, right?  And… yeah.”  There’s that smile again—the wistful one, like if _only_ the world was as easy for him to mold to his pleasure as the ground, the stone, the air, the atoms in it— “I guess maybe you’ve got more sad stuff than most people.  So I guess maybe the balance sort of favors that right now.  But that doesn’t… own you.  That’s not all you are.  There’s a hell of a lot of good stuff in there, too, and—y’know.  Always time to keep adding.  To tilt the scales.  So maybe you’ll be a happy sack if you just keep at it.”  He shrugs, cheeks darkening, and stirs at his cereal with the spoon.  “Besides—I think you’re a pretty gorgeous collection of stuff right now.”

Roy takes several involuntary steps; and his hands move without his consent, cradling Ed’s face, tilting it up; and the kiss is not an _action_ so much as an extension of his soul.

If he’d been thinking, of course, he would have accounted for his own morning breath as well as the overpowering sticky sweetness of Ed’s breakfast.

All the same—

All the same, he’s not sure that he ever truly understood _desire_ before the first time that his mouth met Ed’s.

“Thank you,” he says when he draws back for breath.

Ed’s eyes stay dazed for a fraction of a moment before they narrow, and Roy is not too noble to gloat a bit.

Inwardly, of course.  He’s learned his lesson there.

“For what?” Ed asks.

“For being you,” Roy says, because that’s about the only thing that can encapsulate it.

Ed flushes just a touch, and his mouth twists with his efforts to hold back a smile.  “Well—I mean, I can hardly fuckin’ help it.”

Roy kisses the tip of his nose, and Ed shifts towards him, and—

Ceramic shatters on the floor, and cold milk sprays all over Roy’s bare feet.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ed says, scrambling down from the chair, planting his right foot delicately among the chips and slivers and then crouching down.  “Fucking— _shit_.  Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Roy says.

“I—” He moves his left hand, palm open, across his chest and looks surprised—then pained—when his right hand doesn’t manifest to meet it.  “ _Fuck_.”

“Let me,” Roy says, sinking down to join him, trying not to move his toes so much as a centimeter in the treacherous pool.  He presses his hands together, fixes a simple array inside his head, and then lays both palms on the floor.

Ed doesn’t look away for a second while the light sears, then wavers, then clears up completely.

“You’ve been practicing,” he says.

Constantly, desperately, with none of Ed’s raw talent or inspiration.

“Here and there,” Roy says.

“It’s great,” Ed says, but then his grin fades.  “Just—fucking—” He gestures helplessly with his left hand.  “Hate not being able to take care of shit.”

“You don’t have to take on the whole world,” Roy says, reaching out with both hands to clasp Ed’s one between his two.  “Not on your own, at any rate.”  Is it too much to—?  “Not anymore.”

Ed smiles again, warmer, and leans in, tilting his forehead against Roy’s for a long moment.

“Thanks,” he says.

“For?” Roy asks.

“Dumbass,” Ed says, grinning.  He stands and plants his one hand on his hip.  “So where the fuck’s the mop?”


End file.
